Satan V: Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked

 “Saving all your food stamps and burning down the trailer park…” — Loser by Beck

The “forces of evil in a bozo nightmare” were conspiring against me. I couldn’t stay home and get drunk and pass out like a normal person. Because I couldn’t sleep there; I couldn’t sleep at all. Even though I was comfortable in my warm buzz, once I laid down my thoughts exploded like bird shot, like my mind was in a Daytona 500 (my brain was drunk, but my psyche was on point), and after a short time (idk 15 to 30 min) I would start withdrawing from the alcohol and my heart would race, so it was back to the antics. The fatigue was a ruse, like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. During one non-nap I saw Jesus, or what I thought was Jesus, in a negative photo film, Shroud of Turin like image. He didn’t appear in order to save me. Just to spook me (the funny Jesus. I knew he had a sense of humor).

My favorite place to be was at Ross’, even though I don’t think he wanted me there, but he didn’t know how to make me go away. He let me smoke his cigarettes, cause I was too drunk to get my own (as you can tell I wasn’t a very functional alcoholic). He smoked menthol, like me, but they were shorts (ugh). We went in the camper when it got too hot ( his a/c really did suck), and I tried to sleep in his bed, which was half messy sheets and half dirty clothes. He didn’t dare touch me during all the time I spent in that bed (okay, only once. He tried), but it was really a screwed up thing for me to do (the carrot and the donkey again). I was playing with fire (and I’m pretty sure my guardian angel went on vacation (somewhere cooler)).

In that bed I had a nightmare which scared the shit out of me. I dreamed I was hemorrhaging, like blood was coming out of my nose and every orifice (was it Ebola? No. It was worse). It felt very real, and now I understand the word “vision” (it was not a “crystal vision” that Stevie Nicks sings about), because there’s no way I was sleeping long enough to be dreaming. So I got up to have a leftover beer from the Boat Bar. And later that day I concocted a whiskey and sweet tea (if that’s not southern I don’t know what is) and moseyed around the park while I called my dad and told him how bad my drinking had gotten. And then I took a hiatus to my roommate’s best friends house (that is another story for another time) and came home no better if not worse. I had to keep drinking away all these bad experiences, which created more bad scenarios…you get the idea. Vicious cycle is an understatement for alcoholism.

That’s another thing I was doing, frequenting the Boat Bar up the street, drinking draft beer and collecting chips for free drinks. And walking out of there with “leftovers,” which I wasn’t supposed to do, but I think they felt bad for me. I know I stunk, and I had stopped brushing my hair, so it was in this messy rats nest bun on top of my head (later my nana mentioned that I might have to cut off all my hair (!)). I smelled like sweat and piss and old beer (sorry but it’s true). My mom sent the cops up there one time to look for me, because I wasn’t answering my phone (it was dead and out of service). The cop asked me if I was alright. “Just having some beers,” I said (it’s too bad they didn’t serve liquor there (that could have been disastrous)). I tried to give him a hug. Even though I didn’t feel shame about most of the things I did, I was too embarrassed to go up there after that. It made me look suspicious and it drew attention to the bar (whose mother does that? Mine).

I was still meeting the midnight fisherman on the dock (Ross swore I was seeing other men and it pissed him off. Like really pissed him off. He was already an angry man (And I was but I wasn’t having sex with them. Or him)). He didn’t understand my behavior but I guess he liked my company. One time he took me to the Boat Bar for pizza. I started wearing Ross’ clothes, like a large Hawaiian shirt. I looked weird and trashy, and that’s how I acted. I lied about where I lived. I lied a lot, but not as much as I drank. I smoked menthols like they were going out of style (which also explains the fatigue. And the withdrawals). I took a dip in the river, which is full of bacteria, in a large t shirt with no underwear. Another cop reprimanded me for having an open container. 

One of my neighbors, a nice woman with a big heart who cared alot, whose name I won’t mention, had a little talk with me. She picked me up in a big F-150. I thought she was gonna take me to the hospital or rehab. “Don’t worry, we’re just going for a little ride.” She rode me around the small lanes of the trailer park while she admitted that people were taking about me. “And it’s not good, CeeCee” (that’s what she called me). It didn’t surprise me, but I didn’t care. I kept nursing my drink. “I feel better this way,” I said justifying my behavior. “Girl, I was just like you. But you know what? One day I woke up.” [she might be surprised that I still remember this]

I wasn’t ready to wake up. So what if I was Celeste The Trailer Park Drunk? (aka The Girl in the Dirty Dress) This had to be better than being sober and having to take responsibility for my problems and fix them, like brush all the knots out of my hair, scrub all the grime off my body, brush my teeth, do my laundry, reboot my phone, and pay my car bill (I was expecting it to get repossessed and I didn’t care (I shouldn’t have been driving anyway)), and explain to my mother just what the fuck I was doing (hey it was my prerogative).

Another person cared, too. But I wasn’t interested in what he thought.

One day in a stupor I walked by my ex’s house (cause I had guts when I drank (and by now we had to be officially broken up)) and there he was in the yard with a hose in his hand. He must have been washing his truck or something. “Damn, you stink,” he said and he proceeded to spray me with the hose. There were other people around. “The park is taking up a collection for you, you know in case you die. Won’t be long,” he yapped. He handed me a ziploc bag full of dinner he made (I think it was fried chicken and a roll). “Ciao,” he said like he always did (I didn’t know rednecks spoke Spanish?). I gave the dinner to the fisherman, cause now I knew where he lived and I was trying to sleep in his bed, too (until his pill head aunt banned me). He told somebody that I gave him a blow job, and my ex found out, and the rumor was going around the park (I DIDN’T). Later on I found a card posted on his door with my name on it. It said “RIP.”

“Beer on whiskey, mighty risky.”

*I wasn’t sure if I should publish this, but I have poor impulse control, and believe it or not this is probably the worst of the story. Hang in there!